


Spread Your Wings

by Keibell



Series: Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Comfort, Concerts, Father Figures, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Singing, present day! Brian, present day! roger, slight angst, very small amount of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keibell/pseuds/Keibell
Summary: After a near-miss with a tech disaster during the show, Roger and Brian have a proposition for you.





	Spread Your Wings

Honestly, you didn’t know what you were thinking.

But it had all just been going so _wrong._

The tech had been haywire all evening, perhaps either by the crew’s incompetence or Freddie’s own divine intervention. You didn’t like to think bad about the crew backstage, running the gig, because you were just happy to be there - but sometimes it felt like they just didn’t listen.

After all, there was _no way_ that many things could go wrong in one evening.

To start with, someone had managed to knock the amp during the ‘ _Somebody to Love_ ’ guitar solo, meaning that the entire arena was filled with screeching feedback for the whole first bar. On top of that, you’d spent the entire show dodging the wires around your mic, because one of the techies had forgotten to tape them down and they had become a tangle at your feet - so much so that during ‘ _Don’t Stop Me Now_ ’, you’d tripped on them while dancing and sent your mic crashing to the floor; the noise shaking the speakers, and causing the fans at the front to grimace. They’d even been falling behind with swapping instruments for different sections of songs, producing horribly awkward gaps of silence and leaving you to fight the timing back into submission. Luckily, you and Roger had become a strong unit, and would usually glance to each other with matching, scathing looks to count each other back in.

But worst of all, Roger’s microphone had been cutting out all evening.

It wasn’t too bad, seeing as it was his vocal mic, and not the microphones for his drums - or, the ‘D mics’ as you learnt they were _hilariously_ called - so the audience didn’t seem to notice too much. _But you did._

And that’s how you got in this predicament, surrounded by faux fog and silhouetted in flashing lights as the three of you segued from ‘ _Bicycle Race_ ’ into ‘ _I’m In Love With My Car_ ’, looking at each other to double check that everyone was on the same page and in working order.

Brian gave you a nod, which you returned, tuning your ear to listen for your bass in the music, finding it thrumming steadily under Brian’s wailing guitar. That’s when you looked up at Roger, who was murmuring into his microphone to check that it was working, only for no sound to come out of the speakers.

He turned and met your gaze with a panicked look, already hitting the rapid, full drumbeat of the beginning of the song. He shook his head, and your eyes widened, your legs instantly turning to jelly. _You didn’t know how you were going to get out of this one._

The vocalist was out in front with the crowd, blissfully unaware, as you, Roger and Brian tended to carry this bit of the show, leaving them to do their own thing. There was no way you could get their attention, and prompt them to sing before the intro was over.

It was a split-second decision. One that, unfortunately, _you_ had to make. But the lights were so bright, the air so thick, that you acted purely from reflex.

And that’s why you ran up to your mic - nearly bowling it over for the second time that night - _and opened your mouth to sing._

You winced to yourself as you heard the signature opening vocalisation in your own, unfamiliar voice, at the booming volume of the show. The tech team were evidently confused, but wrestled to get the show running as smoothly as possible, taking the bright lights down off of Roger, and onto you, highlighting you with the closest spotlight - which managed to careen around the stage before landing over you. The sound team shot up the volume of your microphone too, taking your voice from its usual, harmony-appropriate setting to the stage-shaking loudness of the solo mics.

The audience was obviously confused too, the crowd going uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, before joining in, and nearly overpowering your own singing, drowning you in the sea of voices.

“ _The machine of a dream..._ ”

You look to the side as you sing and play, - thankfully the bass part was relatively simple, and one that you could play in your sleep - and you meet two stunned faces. Brian looks at you with his mouth slightly open, eyes wide, and the singer is just confused, but trying to play it off as normal, continuing with their regular stage choreography. Brian’s shocked expression is enough to make you laugh, into the first line of the chorus, before you get your voice under control again.

Roger, on the other hand, is grinning at you wildly with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He seems to shake his head in disbelief, before hitting the drums with more vigour, throwing his whole body into it.

You turn back to the mic and keep singing, deciding to play it up a little. God, if the fans weren’t going to get Roger, you might as well give it your best shot - there was no point in half-arsing it. It was like Freddie Mercury himself had given you a solid kick in the arse, and told you to pull yourself together and ‘ _give them a show_ ’.

So you gave them a show.

You didn’t really know what came over you, playing up some of the more suggestive lines with a seductive swish of your hips, or playfully dipping your tone into a more breathy, sexual one. Your voice wasn’t as powerful or gravelly as Roger’s, so it didn’t particularly hold the same rock ’n’ roll gravity, but it was soaring, clear, and in-tune - which was good enough for you. You tended to sing the upper harmonies anyway, so the song’s higher-pitched second verse didn’t phase you, and you went into the instrumental before the pre-chorus with a bounce, your hair falling wildly around your face.

You don’t even realise that you’re smiling wider than ever as the song finishes up, the rest of the band singing the back-up. You nearly mess up, slipping into the background vocals, before reminding yourself that you’re in the spotlight. _Literally._ You sing the final note, and then step back from the mic to concentrate playing the outro, fluttering your hands along the frets of your bass with practised ease.

The song ends and the crowd cheers, and you feel your face turn a bright red as you curtesy awkwardly.

“Bit of a mix-up there, folks, I must admit.” Brian jokes, and the audience laugh lightly, your own breathless giggles echoing over your mic, which has been set back to its normal volume.

“Sorry, I just got excited.” You decide to play along, fiddling with your bass nervously, almost jittery with the rush of adrenaline. You’re not exactly used to being at the centre of the action, much less having everyone’s attention on you. You pull a face at him, like a grimace - an attempt to convey the strange, nervous feeling you have curling in the pit of your stomach, and Brian chuckles knowingly. “Hope you don’t mind, Rog.”

“Not at all!” He chuckles, the techies having rushed to the drum risers to fix his mic during the song. You bend at the waist in a low, elaborate bow, and Roger speaks again. “You want to introduce the next song for us, B?”

Ah, the nickname that had been so lovingly picked for you. It still made you flush from embarrassment when you heard it, and you push your hair behind your ears with a small nod.

“Uh, ladies and gentlemen; a little song you might know called ‘ _Another One Bites the Dust_ ’!” You announce, to the shrieking of the audience, and you kick up the famous bassline with a stomp of your shiny stage-costume boots, Roger starting the drums in perfect sync.

-

Roger is shaking you by the arms the minute you all get offstage after the final number, looking absolutely delighted, before clasping you in the tightest hug of your life. He nearly lifts you clean off of the floor, prompting a wheeze and a groan from you, through the iron grip he had around your chest.

“You absolute _maniac!_ _Who are you?!_ ” He crows, squeezing the air out of your lungs and clapping you on the back. Your eyebrows are knitting in confusion, but your face is too squashed into his shoulder for him to notice.

“Rog-”

“Oh, Y/N, that was brilliant!” Brian’s hugging you now, barely giving you time to catch your breath before he’s bending down a little to reach your height. You very nearly protest, your arms flopping awkwardly at your sides as you’re batted around like a rag-doll. “We’re both so proud of you!”

_Proud of you. That was nice._

They let go of you long enough for you to breathe again, but their hands are holding onto your shoulders and jostling you around, beaming at you. You take in another shaky breath, feeling like your knees were about to give out on you, and send you crashing to the floor.

“Roger, really - I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I just panicked and-“ You babble, and he hushes you, waving your protests off with a tattooed hand. It doesn’t deter you, just makes you more determined to have your apologies heard, your own hands flitting about nervously. “I’m serious! I didn’t-“

“Y/N, Y/N, calm down.” Brian hums from behind you, the familiar lilt of his voice soothing the erratic feeling that had built in your body, buzzing along your nerve-endings like static. You almost felt sick with the sheer amount of energy you had pumping through your bloodstream, cultivating in the nervous shuffling of your feet. “You did a beautiful job.”

“I _told_ you, didn’t I, Brian?! I fucking told you!” Roger smirks, almost triumphantly, and your expression instantly switches to one of confusion, your racing heart dropping from your throat to your stomach.

“What- What d’you mean ‘ _you told him_ ’?” You ask, and Roger’s own smile fades away, looking like a kid with his hand caught in the biscuit tin. He grows sheepish, and you can practically feel Brian glowering at him from over your shoulder.

Eventually, after a pregnant pause with Roger growing increasingly guilty-looking, Brian sighs and resigns himself to explaining Roger’s gloating outburst.

“Y/N, would you mind coming back to my hotel room with us? There’s something that we’ve been meaning to discuss with you for a while now.” He says, and you tear away from him and wheel around, heart thumping against your ribcage, harder than the drumming that shook the ground beneath your feet every night. You nearly vomit, or pass out, from that single little sentence - the worst thing he could possibly say to you. His hands raise a little, as if to catch or steady you, and you take a few staggered steps backwards.

 _They didn’t want you anymore, did they?_ You’d have to go home, to playing gigs with a band that barely knew one time signature from the next and did nothing but smoke spliffs before decimating a set, and then you’d be having to work at that awful ‘ _Asda_ ’ on Bank Street with the dodgy alleyways-

“ _Oi_ , B.” Roger places a warm hand on your arm - exposed to the cold air by the Freddie-inspired shirt you’d decided to wear for the show that night, knocking you out of your spiral with a pained expression. His eyes are all soft now, caring and genuine. “It’s not a bad thing, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” Your reply is shaky, and you take a breath to try and calm the race of your heartbeat on your sternum. You nod, and they start to leave, your own feet falling quickly into step behind them.

You reach what looks like Brian’s hotel room (judging by the guitars in various stands, cameras lying around, and the single exercise bike standing in the corner by the window) in no time, where Brian fishes around in a suitcase to pull out a laptop.

Roger settles himself down on the sofa and pats the space next to him, the one in the middle. _Oh God_ , they’re going to do that thing where they sandwich you again. It was a tactic they often employed to get you to sit and listen to them, usually serving as an intervention when you were working too hard or sleeping too little or worrying about something small. It was the only thing that worked, apparently; if they didn’t sit there and trap you between them with your own refusal to be rude ( _you were too polite to straight-up leave and they often took advantage this_ ), then you would end up fleeing from them at any given moment.

Sure enough, after Brian finishes typing and clicking and typing again, he settles himself on the other side of you. _Ah, great._

“So you sang in the set tonight.” He says with no particular inclination, and you nod slowly, almost hesitant, for fear of it being a trick question.

“I did.” You reply, bobbing your head like one of those tacky ornaments the driver insisted on having at the front of the bus, and that Roger loathed. You didn’t mind them though, you found the constant, rhythmic nodding to be quite soothing, and you always ended up fast asleep whenever the blasted thing was in your immediate peripheral. Roger had started refusing to allow you to sit in view of the dashboard. “And I’m still sorry-“

“Stop saying you’re sorry! You shouldn’t be, you were fantastic!” Roger scolds you lightly, and you shrink into yourself, chewing at your lip. He pauses, and then continues. “And it’s been something we’ve wanted to talk about for a while.”

“Talk about _what_ , though?”

“ _The singing!_ You told us you couldn’t!” Roger seems like he’s getting exasperated now, whipping his hands about as he talks. “Deaky never sang either so we just didn’t question it!”

“We had the poor man miming at the microphone in so many music videos.” Brian sighs, scratching at his silver curls.

“I never said I _couldn’t_.” You clarify, the audition process flickering through your head. Two overly formal handshakes with your legendary, future bandmates; a perfectly played ‘ _Dragon Attack_ ’ bassline; and a short conversation about how you take your tea formed the foundation to the event that changed your life. “I said that I _didn’t_ \- and John didn’t sing, so I didn’t think it was important.”

“But you were in bands before us!”

“Yeah, _many_ , and they were all shite!” You argue, scrunching your nose and picking at your jeans. “I didn’t sing in them either.”

“Oh, ‘ _The Marmalade._ ’” Roger raised an eyebrow. You recoil at the unfortunate name of your ‘ _The Jam_ ’ cover band, which you had confessed to Roger during a drunken gossip-session in his loft - and he hadn’t pulled any punches with the teasing since.

“No. Different band.” You shrug, picking at the hem of your shirt with a scrunched nose. “I’ve been through lots and didn’t really front for any of them. There was ‘Blue Lloyd’ which covered ‘ _Pink Floyd_ ’, ‘The What’ which covered ‘ _The Who_ ’, ‘Smiles for Miles’ which covered ‘ _Tears for Fears_ ’ - the list goes on for an embarrassingly long time, I can keep going-?”

“No, no, you’re alright.” Brian looks like he had to physically restrain himself from groaning with every new name you announced. You certainly were experienced in the world of terrible university bands if you’d played with that many; though he hadn’t realised what a large repertoire you had. “But I was tweeted something the other day, and we’d like you to take a look.”

He turned the laptop towards you, and you shivered with discomfort at the sight of it. A _YouTube_ video of you with your last band, the one you’d stuck with the longest, from a year or so ago. Your hair is awkwardly cut, and falls all wrong around your face, flopping pathetically over your eyes as you look down at the bass strapped to your middle. It takes a while to process, but you eventually recognise the venue as one that you were eventually banned from, thanks to the behaviour of your frontman - this must be from that night.

You remember this gig well, because it was a complete _disaster._

“That’s my last band, ‘Penny the Set.’”

“‘ _Penny the Set_ ’?” Roger raises an eyebrow, turning the top half of his body away from the laptop to look at you, currently slumped in your seat, face burning from embarrassment. “That’s a strange name.”

“Yeah, it was Julian’s idea.” You shrug, fidgeting uncomfortably at the sight of you tuning your bass with an incredibly heavy hand. You want to go back in time and tell yourself how you’re doing it all wrong - but if you did that you’d probably have to sit through the awful show, and you _definitely_ didn’t want that. “He’s a strange man.”

“Julian?”

“ _Him_.” You merely point a finger at the frontman of the band, currently fiddling with and complaining about a mic stand that didn’t have anything wrong with it to begin with. You pull a sour face at the mere sight of him, obnoxiously dressed and with the same horrific haircut he had when you last saw him, just a little shorter. He was one of those people that nobody liked, and he was too pretentious and self-absorbed even notice, occupying himself with trying to prove how he was above everyone around him.

And he wasn’t just a shit person; he couldn’t sing if his life depended on it. If he was held at gunpoint and told to sing ‘ _Humpty Dumpty_ ’ without hitting a bum note, he’d be dead before the middle of the first bar - and, for some reason, it seemed that no one had bothered to tell him this.

On-screen Julian was snapping his fingers at on-screen you, beckoning you over to ‘fix’ the stand, and then dismissing you by grabbing your wrists and ripping your hands from the stand, sending you back to your post by the amp with a flippant wave and not a word of thanks. Your current look of uncomfortable disgust mirrors the one you wore in the past, you suddenly realise, and sigh. Your wrists ache like they did back then - you remember that they were bruised for a week or so after.

“ _Christ,_ ” Roger mutters.

“Yep.”

“The set can’t be that bad.” Brian offers, though his face betrays that he thinks otherwise, and you scoff, fast-forwarding the video a few seconds so the music would actually start up.

“Hold on, Brian.” You sigh, sitting back and fighting the urge to cover your own face. “It only gets worse from here.”

And that it did. You’d never been more ashamed of your own playing ability, much less the incompetence of your own band. You wouldn’t think you’d ever see a drummer who couldn’t keep time, but it seems Annabelle, a psychology major who could barely count to ten, was defying all expectations in that department. And you’d forgotten how lacklustre the guitarist was - some stoned economics student called Gavin - who apparently couldn’t tell his D string from his E string.

And fucking _Julian_. You’d never seen a more tone-deaf, rude, and downright _boring_ frontman in your life. It was a wonder you’d stuck with the band as long as you did. You could see Brian wince beside you as Gavin misjudged his finger placements and produce a horrible, buzzing sound in the middle of a solo, and Roger was tutting away as Annabelle skipped another beat during the generally awful ‘ _I Predict a Riot_ ’ cover.

_Then, the moment it all kicked off. You remember it all too well._

It was a bass-oriented song, ‘ _Blue Monday_ ’ by ‘ _New Orde_ r’, meaning that you were left to steer the ship - though that didn’t mean much, as you tended to be the one keeping everything together in the first place. You scroll into the comments to find a few Queen fans _(how did they manage to find this, of all things!?)._

**‘Oh ok so Y/N’s been that talented since the start?? Go off !!’**

**‘Like if you’re here bc of the Queen tour!!!! <3’**

**‘Anyone else seeing that Y/N is basically counting everyone in lol?’**

The last one got your attention, and scrolling back up to the video you can see your former self at your utmost concentration, facing the rest of the band and counting them in, tapping your foot to the beat of the song to keep them all in time, all while playing the complicated bassline. You’re borderline conducting them, each member of the band watching you and following your instructions closely.

That is, apart from Julian. He’s butchering every note, the song completely falling flat on his part, and it’s a wonder the audience hasn’t up and left yet - you’re looking like want to leave yourself, and you’re _playing_ the ruddy thing.

“ _Oh, dear._ ” Brian hums to himself, and you nod resignedly, folding your arms and leaning back into the sofa. “It’s worse than I remember it being, I just skipped past all of this.”

Suddenly, you see yourself reach the end of your tether with Julian’s droning voice, and hit the riff hard on your bass, throwing the song into the small instrumental, where you take the time to step closer to your mic, fiddling with the knobs on the nearby amp to kick the volume up.

“ _I see a ship in the harbour..._ ” It’s now your own voice coming through the laptop's speakers, overlapping Julian’s, where he immediately cuts himself off in the middle of the lyric and turns his head aggressively from the front of the stage to glower at you. He scowls angrily, ripping his mic from the stand and storming off to the backstage area, leaving the speakers ringing with feedback.

You do a decent job in the end, though anything was better than that piss-pot of a man, and manage to end the set on a lighter note, thanking the crowd for their time. You watch your former self and the band start to pack up a little, and the person filming murmurs quietly to themselves, fiddling with their phone before the picture goes blurry and suddenly cuts off. There’s a beat of silence between you, Roger, and Brian.

“Well, we can all agree that Julian was fucking _awful_.” Roger offers, after a few heavy moments. “How could he be so flat? It’s ‘ _Blue Monday_ ’!”

You blink.

_All of a sudden you find yourself backstage at that particular pub, sweaty and hot with stage lights and embarrassment. Julian is pacing circles in front of you, scuffing rings into the ratty carpet with the ugly boots he always insisted on wearing._

_“I can’t believe you fucking did that, Y/N.” He spits at you, red-faced and livid. You find a small spark of anger igniting in you, and push it down, not wanting to enrage him any further._

_“Did you see the audience? It was going downhill, I had to do something.” You argue back, trying to keep your calm and make a fair point. Julian stops, turns, and stalks towards you, his nose inches from yours._

_“Don’t fucking talk to me like that. This is_ my _band, and we do what_ I _say, instead of trying to show off.”_

 _“I wasn’t showing off - you were flat!” You automatically put a hand out to stop him coming any closer to you, your fingers pressing against his sternum as he pushes forward. “How were you flat? It’s ‘_ Blue Monday _’! It’s not exactly ‘_ Bohemian Rhapsody _’!”_

_Oh, the irony._

_“Shut the fuck up, Y/N!” He hisses, and you stumble back a few steps until your back is against the cold plaster of the wall, chipping and fading with years and years of neglect, your head bumping against it awkwardly._

_“Get away from me-“_

_“I said shut up!”_

_He suddenly draws back his fist, and swings, and your scream pierces the air as you duck down reflexively, arms coming up to protect your head from the blow. His knuckles connect with the wall instead, chipping the dried-up plaster with a sickening crack._

_“Jules, stop!” Your bandmates all shout in alarm, surging forward to pull the frontman away from you. You take a breath, losing your balance from the curled-up crouch, and falling the short distance to the floor. Crumbs of paint and plaster cover your legs and hair with a coarse, white powder._

_“Julian, what the fuck?!” You cry, hoarsely, watching Julian shake out his fist - and for a second, you’re worried he might try and swing again. “Are you out of your shitting mind?!”_

_“Calm down, I wasn’t even aiming at you!” He takes another step forward, and you’re ashamed at how fast you move away, scrambling along the floor._

_“Don’t touch me!”_

_“You’re nothing but a bass player, Y/N, and you’re going to stay that way! If you’re not going to play by my rules, then you know where the door is!”_

_“Get out of the way then, dickhead. I’m going home.” You pull yourself off of the floor and out of the corner he’d backed you into, leering over you with an awful, angry glint in his eyes. You push past him, and he shoves his shoulder into yours, nearly toppling you over as you pack up your things and grab your bass._

_“Good luck finding another band that will have you, you stupid fucking waste of space!”_

The sound of Julian slamming the door echoes around your head as Brian pats at your knee, jerking you out of the memory with a violent jolt through your spine. You reflexively flinch from Brian, yanking yourself away from him before you realise who he is, and you let your shoulders relax. He knits his eyebrows with a look of concern that makes your stomach pull into knots and your skin crawl.

“How come you left?” He asks cautiously, and you swallow thickly. _They don’t need to know,_ you tell yourself, and you rub at your wrists absent-mindedly. For a second, you’re sure they’re mottled with green and purple bruises - but you blink, and they’re not.

“Can’t remember.” You lie, and Brian doesn’t press any further. Roger is fiddling with the laptop now, trying to stop the next video from playing automatically, and you jump in to press the right button just in time, shifting uncomfortably under Brian’s worried stare.

“Anyway, you get the gist,” Roger says, and you hesitate at the computer screen, your mouth suddenly very dry, and your tongue heavy in your mouth. “The point is that you have sung for a band in the past, and tonight proved that you still can. We were going to ask anyway and all, but we weren’t too sure if-“

“I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.” You say, and your voice sounds horribly small and timid. Roger and Brian are quiet, watching you as you furrow your eyebrows at the screen.

 **‘Who’s the horrible singer?? So aggressive... no wonder the bassist flinches when he moves his arms lol’** One comment read, and you quickly closed the tab before either of them could read it.

“What we’re saying, Y/N, is that we’d like for you to sing something on stage - make it a part of the setlist.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel it in the very tips of your fingers, pulsing through your body like a wave of anxiety. You’re blurting out an answer before you can even fully process what’s been said to you.

“Why?”

“Well, why not-?”

“No, I mean, like, _why me?_ ” You scrunch up your face, stomach doing somersaults at the idea of singing in front of an audience as big as the ones you’d grown used to. It’s one thing to do it in an emergency, fuelled by the adrenaline of the lights and the smoke and the noise; but to plan it out, and rehearse it, and have it sitting in the back of your mind, pressing down on your shoulders was completely different. “You have a singer already, who’s _better_ than me, I don’t-“

“It’s not about who’s better than who, Y/N.” Brian brings his arm around your back, rubbing at your shoulder, before he hesitates, the movement faltering a little before he pushes on, as if gauging your reaction. You have a sneaking suspicion that he’s put two and two together, and you suddenly feel a little sicker.

That was the thing about Brian. He was always so smart and alert that you couldn’t hide anything. Like when you first started playing for ‘ _Queen_ ’, he was the first one to notice that you were losing sleep and panicking over something minor - or when he’d figured out your favourite outfits just from your body language, and gotten the wardrobe department to fill your stage-clothes rack with similar styles. It was both a blessing and a curse.

You didn’t want pity, other people needed it more than you - and clearly, you were doing just fine.

But Brian’s eyes didn’t seem to think so. You avoided his gaze.

“Come on, B, _spread your wings!_ ”

“Please don’t quote your own songs at me, Roger.”

“Besides, you were brilliant when we did ‘ _Seaside Rendezvous_ ’!” Roger insists, and you sigh, scratching at an ink stain on your pants with a thumbnail. That cover was the product of many alcoholic beverages and mistakes, resulting in an onslaught of memes and a thimble on a chain, which now hung around your neck.

“ _We were pissed!_ I haven’t even brought myself to watch it back, yet!” You play with the thimble, almost by reflex, slipping your finger into the silver and tapping it against your collarbones. It’s something of a comfort item for you now, anchoring you to the present and reminding you of why you’re there. _Who_ you’re there for.

“B-“

“I’m not singing in the set.”

“ _Y/N._ ”

“I can’t.”

“Says who, eh?” Roger nudges at you with his knee, and you don’t respond, shoulders slumped, your hands limp in your lap. He frowns a little when you don’t respond to his teasing in the way you usually do, with a laugh and a clever retort. Now, you sit there like a rag-doll, with the sound of knuckles hitting crumbling plaster echoing around your head.

“I do.” You answer, your voice dry and hoarse. “Me and all those people in that crowd. _I just play bass_ ; I’m nothing more.”

“Y/N... _who_ told you that?” Brian asks carefully, and you jump up like you’ve been shot, sniffling and scrubbing at your cheeks. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._

“ _No one_ , it’s just-“

“Y/N, please.”

“I can’t, _I just can’t_ , I’m so sorry-“

“Y/N, dear, calm down.”

It’s the ‘ _dear_ ’ that breaks you. One tiny, little word that holds so much love and care, said so softly by one of the men who have looked after you, and taught you so much, and made sure you slept enough, and ate enough, and drank enough.

“ _I’m not Freddie!_ ” You blurt it out, and then clap a shaking hand over your mouth, feeling the colour drain from your face. Something animalistic and deep inside you screams at you to _run, run home_ , but you’re not quite sure where that is. ‘Home’ for you has been _here_ \- with _Queen_ \- for quite some time, now.

“ _Oh_ , Y/N,” Brian says, so softly, and you crumple like paper.

“I’m already a replacement for someone. I’m already ‘ _Not John_ ’, I can’t be ‘ _Not Freddie_ ’ too.” Your breath is coming in short, shallow bursts, batting around your lungs and forcing itself out again before you even process what’s happening. You’re already embarrassed, but this is making the whole ordeal worse, your face burning red. “I’m already being constantly judged for what I do or don’t do, and- and _Julian_ \- Please, _I can’t breathe_ -“

Someone’s hands are on yours, soft and warm, and pulling them towards you gently; so different to Julian - _like it was an invitation, not an order_. You suck in a gulp of air, feeling the oxygen flood your arteries with a rush.

“Sod them, B.” Roger’s voice is somewhere far away, but familiar, smoothing a hand over your hair, and you lean into his touch. “Julian, and all those other bastards who want you to be someone else.”

“Roger-“

Brian’s voice finds its way through the thick fog of panic you’ve become shrouded in, like streaks of sunlight breaking through a cloud.

“We’re not asking you to be Freddie, Y/N. We’re asking for _you_.”

And it all becomes so startlingly clear.

The world around you seems to shatter, and you feel like you can see again, _breathe_ again. Brian’s crouched in front of you, and you push yourself to your feet - and he doesn’t try to step closer, or touch you, just looks at you so you can see every fleck of colour in his irises. This sort of thing had to happen for a reason; after all, you couldn’t have joined ‘ _Queen_ ’ if you hadn’t have left Julian. Roger’s microphone cutting out tonight had to have a reason, and maybe this was it.

A breath. _What are you going to do?_

_You know._

“I need an electric piano.” Your voice cracks at the start, but you quickly develop confidence in your statement, wiping your eyes one last, defiant time. Roger and Brian blink at you, looking blank.

“A _what?_ ”

“An electric piano. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it the proper way.” Roger is still furrowing his brow, but a smile is beginning to bloom on Brian’s lips, his arms folded across his chest.

“Do you even know how to play?”

“No, but I can teach myself.” You’re already busying yourself with figuring out chords, and tech, and staging - trying to pick out chord progressions from memory. Music, at it’s best, was just jigsaw pieces that fit perfectly together to create a masterpiece; and now you were taking the pieces of _Queen_ ’s music apart, picking out all of the different instruments and rhythms and timings. Their music was something so lovingly crafted, and now you got to put the pieces together for arenas full of people every night.

“If John can do it, so can I.”

-

You turn up to the rehearsals the next morning fuelled by coffee and not much else, hauling around the electric piano someone had managed to find you in a tip. It was rather fitting, actually, considering it was how John found the parts for his ‘ _Deaky Amp_ ’, and it made you all the more fond of it. You’d then spent most of the night poring over the keys and watching YouTube tutorials to teach yourself how to read the music sheets and other associated paraphernalia. You didn’t need to be a master, just able to play that one song.

You spent the whole morning finding a spot for your new piano on the stage (at least, you supposed it belonged to you now, seeing as you’d spent an hour last night carving your full name into one of the legs with a butter knife, alongside the letter ‘B’), and you’d argued with the tech team for _God knows_ how long to get them to rig it up to the sound system, and sort out a place for it to go on the set-list. You supposed they only did it because they owed you a favour from the dramatics of the last show.

Then, you’d somehow bribed the poor singer to become involved in your scheme, spending the rest of the morning teaching them how to play the song on the piano, accompanying them with lazy, looping basslines as you straightened out the foundations of the song. They were a little stressed about having to learn a whole new number, until you told them that they weren’t singing it.

You worked until the tech crew kicked you out so they could set up for the show, shooing you offstage and into the wings; where you nearly collided with Brian and Roger, already dressed in their stage-gear. Brian simply smiled, having been witness to your creative whirlwind since the wee hours of the morning - you’d kept him awake far past his bedtime with the constant, erratic playing of the piano seeping through hotel room walls separating you. He was sure that if he closed his eyes, he would still be able to hear you banging out shaky scales in each octave, and singing the lyrics to yourself over and over again.

“Good afternoon, B.”

“ _Can’t talk, sorry!_ ” You’d managed to say, before you were running off to your room to get ready, stuffing a sandwich Roger had held out to you into your mouth on the way.

-

“ _Now_ , for something different.” Brian announces to the crowd after finishing his acoustic rendition of ‘ _Love of My Life_ ’, a song that you were always happy to sit on the sidelines to watch; your veins flooding with the warm, fuzzy feeling you always got when Freddie appeared on the screen above - a welcome change from the icy anxiety that had been ricocheting through your system all day. You heard from Brian that John used to throw peanuts at him during the ‘ _Brighton Rock_ ’ solo, and had yet to revive the tradition, instead opting for suffering from a terminal case of ‘heart-eyes’, with plenty of photos of you looking adoringly at Brian and Roger appearing in your _Twitter_ feed.. Freddie bowed from the screen, and you watched him walk off, in a whirl of bright colours and energy.  You’d tried to emulate the same attitude in your own outfit tonight, dressed head-to-toe in blue in homage to John’s ‘ _Rock Montreal_ ’ look.

You got up from your routine perch on top of an amp, and nodded to yourself, passing the vocalist on their way to the electric piano parked in the corner of the stage. You tapped the thimble against your collarbone in a steady beat, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet, the rhythm calming your rattled nerves. _Come on, B; what would Freddie say to you?_

“Ladies and gentlemen, you may have heard there was a bit of a fiasco last night concerning tech. Thankfully, it’s all sorted out now!” He continues, and you chuckle to yourself. ‘ _Heard_ ’ was an understatement, as your phone had been blowing up all night and day with people tweeting you and posting videos of your impromptu cover, with captions of random letters and exclamation points. Personal highlights included the person who had taken the time to edit swarms of heart emojis around every non-blurry photo of you, and the _Twitter_ user who made a thread of all your ‘iconic’ moments, which you had been sent more than once.

The fans, it seemed, had also caught onto your nickname, and it had resulted in endless amusement on your end.

**‘GUYS brian and roger call Y/N ‘bee’ how cute is that!!!’**

**‘Bee? It’s B the letter lol ?’**

**‘Sksksk i thought it was ‘Bean’ what’**

**‘It’s b because it stands for BUSSY’**

The whole situation seemed very familiar, concerning the spelling of another bassist’s nickname; but you had yet to make your opinion on that matter known to your followers. You decided not to correct anyone on the spelling of your own nickname.

“So, we’re trying something a little bit new, and we hope you like it because I’ve never seen anything like this, uh-“ Brian continues, stalling the crowd as you double check that the tech is ready, and that everything is in place. “This is our bassist’s second time in front of the mic, and we’re all very excited to see what they have in-store, because we haven’t seen it, and we don’t know what they’ve been up to all morning-“

You give Brian a thumbs up from your usual spot at stage-right, and he nods in return.  

“So, without further ado; take it away, Y/N!”

The lights come up on you, and you cue in the vocalist, who plays the familiar, bouncing piano introduction, causing the arena to light up with cheers as they recognise the tune. You can’t hide the smile that breaks out on your face as Roger comes in with the drums, and Brian follows with the guitar. You realise how risky this was, not telling them what song you were performing, but Brian had an inkling as to what it was ever since you asked for an electric piano, and had told Roger to give it a practice, just in case. You thank your lucky stars, and before you know it, it’s time for you to sing.

You’ve come this far, it would just be awkward to back out now. It’s at this point you figure out what Freddie would say to you at this moment.

_“In for a penny, darling...”_

_Ready, Freddie._

Your voice soars above the instruments, echoing over the mic and flooding the arena with a beautiful ease. It’s fluid, and familiar, and strangely comfortable for you; as your fingers focus on the bouncing bassline you’d taught yourself the night before.

_“Ooh, you make me live...”_

The whole thing goes rather well, despite your initial refusal. The tech is nothing spectacular - relatively simple for the short space of time you were given - but every inch of light shines onto your soul, and you feel yourself thrive, heart beating steadily in your chest. Thankfully, the piano is consistent, and the cheeky, upbeat bassline stays on time, guided by Roger’s drums. Brian nails the solo, as per usual, and you’re sent into the final section of the song.

The song isn’t that complicated, but you feel as if every word is etched into your heart, feeling the love poured into every note by one Mr. Deacon so many years ago, and translating that into your own voice. When you think about it, you really do mean every word, looking out at the two men you owe so much to, and they look back at you with the proudest smiles on their faces.

You finish the song with a flourish, and bow, much to the delight of the crowd, and Brian, who sweeps you up in another tight hug. Roger claps and whoops at you over the drum kit, his hands high in the air, and you run up the drum risers to clap one of them in a firm hold, grinning.

After the show ends, you find yourself flinging down your bass and stumbling through the wings to the stage door, flinging yourself out of it into the night. You gulp in a few deep breaths, looking up at the stars in the inky sky, before throwing your hands up in the air and laughing, dancing around in the empty street with sheer joy. The rush of performing still floods your veins with an immeasurable amount of joy, and you relish in every second of it.

There was a small noise, and you stop in your tracks, locking eyes with a cat that’s watching you from across the street. It’s sat on the pavement, waving its tail high in the air as if in greeting. The orange wash of the streetlight makes it hard to tell the colour of its coat, but it’s staring at you in such a strange way that you can’t stop looking at it. You nod at it, smiling, and it meows at you.

Without even thinking, you parrot the sound back with an ‘ _ay-oh_.’ Your stomach drops when you process what you’ve just done.

The cat turns, and then it’s gone, leaving you with a strange feeling blooming in your chest. You never really believed in any of the supernatural stuff some of your friends did, but this whole encounter had your head spinning.

Everything happened for a reason. Maybe Roger’s mic cutting out wasn’t the fault of the tech team, but of _someone_ else instead.

_You couldn’t help it if something was simply meant to be._

“Ah, there they are!” A voice calls from behind you, and you turn to see Brian and Roger in the doorway, still in their stage-clothes and beaming at you. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Not much,” You answer, stuffing your hands in your pockets, “just looking at the stars.”

“Well, come on, let’s go home - I’m freezing my bits off out here.” Roger chuckles, and you laugh, goosebumps breaking out over your bare arms.

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

Because you were unbelievably _happy at home_ , where you were meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> pls feel free to request stuff at my Tumblr @rhapso-kei !!


End file.
